


Spinning Gears

by Fen_Assan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Angst, Because Fenris Wearing Goggles, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, Post-Trespasser, Revenge, Romance, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, Steampunk Thedas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11561829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan
Summary: In the world where magic meets machines, how long will it take Fenris and Dorian to realise they can be more to each other than but a means to an end?





	Spinning Gears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Viridis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viridis/gifts).



> I don't even know how I came to this particular idea - but I'm sure it's all Viridis' fault, because this is for her! Happy birthday! <3 Hope you have fun with this crazy story. :)

Perched on a tall, sturdy stool of cast iron, he readjusted his goggles, using them as an over-the-top leather-and-copper-and-tinted-glass hairband: as long as they stayed at the top of his head, there was a chance his unruly white strands might just keep away from his eyes. Finally satisfied with only a single strand escaping his casually tied ponytail to brush against the side of his face, he lifted both his glass and a finger to the heavily tattooed bartender sporting a large leather apron and a top hat fitted with cogs and chains. The man nodded, turned to one of the numerous multicoloured metal pipes installed along the perimeter of the counter, and proceeded to turn the handle, piping the frothy amber ale into another tall glass. 

The bartender’s steady movement hypnotised him for a moment, but then he was putting down his empty glass, and his sleeve got caught on his watch cuff. He rolled up the sleeve and ran his long fingers over the carved brass band, towards the outstretched silver wings in the centre framing the face of the watch. The wings of a bird of prey. _Damn sentimental fool,_ he thought, hid the cuff, and gave the room a look around. 

The bar looked as usual today: the drinks, the chatter, the music from the wind-up playing box, the regular patrons, a couple of “tourists”, a few murky individuals. He was only interested in the one though. Hunching at a corner table was a mistake, he judged. For just as the table for four occupied by but one, unwilling to socialise man was a magnet for suspicion and hostility, as the man himself was clearly not fit for hunching, and had trouble making himself unassuming and invisible. He wore a simple coat, its only decorations - two rows of shiny buttons; his dark, vigorously wavy hair tried to look casually unkempt, but screamed of its owner’s effort instead. He snickered over the rim of his glass, watching a pretty redhead try to make conversation with the dark-haired man at the table. He did not expect her to be so forward. 

“Venhedis,” he swore under his breath, and fished out a slightly crumpled photograph from his pack. A quick comparison proved the current absence of the old-fashioned moustache - good riddance, hair now longer and wilder - definitely an improvement, and a stubble instead of a clean-shaven face of - he was almost certain - the same man in the picture. The redhead, sitting coquettishly with one hip on the table, leaned a little lower, revealing he wondered how many undone buttons. He ground his teeth. He hated when she did that - especially while trying to help _him_. Luckily, she soon stood up, shrugged her deceptively dainty shoulders as if in disappointment, and strode towards the bar - towards a stool next to his. 

“Agreggio Pavali for the lady,” he ordered. She gave him a grateful smile and a look which said “you shouldn't have”. 

“I’m quite certain it is him,” she said sipping her wine, looking away across the bar. “He looks alike, and he most definitely isn’t interested in women.”

“Hmm, not much for identification.”

“I can also confirm he is a mage,” she winked playfully at him, still absorbed in her role. He nearly shuddered. 

“Is he carrying a staff?”

“No.”

“Not even a collapsible one hidden in his clothes? He has enough layers and folds under that coat…”

“No, not even a small rod. Just a knife in his right boot - enchanted one though.”

“Huh. Any clue as to which enchantment?”

“Paralysis poison most likely, but I can’t be sure, you understand,” she smiled radiantly, as if they were talking of nice weather and even nicer plans for a pleasant evening. 

“Hmm,” he grumbled. “Thank you, Varania. I’ll take it from here.” He downed the remaining ale and stood. She caught his hand, brushing that small patch of open skin between the leather strips of his glove which showed the lines of lyrium. It no longer hurt to be touched - not physically at least. 

“Oh you’re not leaving already, are you, darling?” she spoke loud enough for the people around them to hear, and as he sat back, disgruntled, lifting a questioning eyebrow at his sister, she leaned in closer. “I think we’re not the only ones interested in the Magister, Leto.” 

She was right. A group of four fashionably clad and visibly armed - Fenris knew a sword cane when he saw one, however skillfully disguised - thugs were closing in on the dark-haired man. Fenris - Leto - suppressed the itch to reach for his sword. He never was good at watching, but right now that was the smart move. At the corner table, a few unkind, quickly exchanged words gave way to fists, and to a fully-fledged skirmish, with thin blades singing as they were drawn from the canes. There would be no blood, he knew: the security guards, assisted by the stockiest dwarven bartender, made quick work of throwing all five outside, having shaken the coins out of them first - for the drinks and “the disturbance”. Now was his time to move. Fenris nodded to Varania, who met his gaze intently.

“Need any help, brother?” He shook his head.

“Enjoy your wine. I’ll radio you if it doesn’t go to plan.”

“Radio if it does as well,” her voice trailed behind him as he headed for one of the side doors. 

The man they thought the Magister truly was unarmed - and more than that, he was stubbornly attempting to conceal the fact that he was a mage. He stood with his poisoned knife at the ready, but was clearly not as skilled with it as the impression he was trying to project. Fenris reached for the slick grip of the weapon tucked into his own boot, pressed a gear in its middle, and threw his hand away as the blade driven by a perfectly precise clockwork mechanism extended, its intricately carved parts coming together to form a double-edged sword fitted with a line of lyrium along its central groove. 

He growled, announcing the arrival of his blade, unwilling - even outnumbered - to use the element of surprise to his advantage. He swung his sword in the curve of a merciless arc, immediately changing the computations for his chances in this fight - one opponent fewer. Two others faced him with their slim sword canes, but it was the third Fenris kept his eye on: the handle of his blade as he lifted it was not just a grip but a pistol. He ducked just as the probably-Magister yelled “Look out!”

Coming out of the roll, quick-footed, Fenris turned around and struck one of the men on the knee with the heel of his boot, and as he limped forward, thrust his sword into his belly to the hilt. The red of the blood joined the blue of the lyrium, making his sword even more of an object one might admire as a piece of immaculate craftsmanship - and deadly art. He parried the hit from a sword cane, only to drive into the man’s shoulder while his balance was still off, opening a gashing wound on his chest - perfect clothes ruined. The likely-Magister did not entirely waste his time and somehow snuck a cut into their last opponent’s arm - not the one holding the pistol, but still. For a moment, Fenris was curious if Varania had been right about the paralysis poison, but common sense told him to end it right there. Then again, it was _his_ common sense: he threw his blade into his left hand, pressed the thumb of his right into the side of his palm, releasing razor-sharp metal claws at the fingertips of the glove. To the mixture of horror and amazement on the face of the man who was slow catching up to the fact he was dead, Fenris dug his hand into the fashionable thug’s chest, and crushed his heart between his fingers. The body slumped down like a sorry sack of unwanted provisions. Fenris kept his sword in his left hand, retracted the claws, extended his right to the dark-haired man standing on one knee, clutching his ribs, a trickle of blood snaking over simple, unornamented rings he wore - not something to be identified by. The man with grey eyes looked up at Fenris for a long moment, his mouth twitching as if uncertain whether to smile or not. Eventually, he did - smile and take Fenris’ hand to be pulled up.

“You have my gratitude for the timely intervention,” the most-definitely Magister’s hand flowed in a graceful gesture to encompass the dead bodies around them. Fenris nodded, shaking out a rag from his pocket to wipe the blade before collapsing it. 

“You could have handled them without my assistance. I was just curious as to why you chose not to,” he shrugged nonchalantly. The grey eyes squinted at him in suspicion. 

“Ahh, you are the curious kind. I fully admit to possessing that vice - or virtue - myself.” The smile was strained, artificial, wary. “ _You_ are quite curious yourself. Displaying such prowess in both armed combat and magic…”

“There was no magic,” Fenris whirled to face him, cursed himself for taking the bait. 

“Oh if you think there was no magic in that impressive… umm… fisting, you are just as delusional as you are gorgeous, my dear friend,” the Magister purred sweetly, confident now. Fenris ground his teeth, took a breath.

“Those are augmentations.”

“Are they mechanical?”

“That is not exactly any of your business, Magister Dorian Pavus,” Fenris said calmly, alert for a reaction. And it came. 

“I am _not_ a magister!” the man hissed. Good: identity confirmed. 

“Fine. In as much as my abilities are not magical - all but officially recognised status. You can take that as the two of us having something in common if you like - if you need a reason to make it easier for you to work with me.”

“Why would I ever work with you? Who in the Void even are you?”

“Fenris,” he held out his hand, pinning the other man down with his gaze. There came a gasp.

“The…?”

“The one.”

“Of course. I should’ve recognised you… Varric’s…”

“We don’t have much time,” Fenris resisted a lingering look at his watch. “The guards will be here in about twelve seconds. My aircar is just around the corner.”

“Aircar?” A grimace of distaste pulled at Dorian’s objectively handsome features. 

“I guess _your people_ call them aircarriages,” Fenris offered with a near-snarl. 

“Fasta vass. What do you want with me?” 

“You need that wound looked at. Varania’s good with healing spells,” Fenris threw over his shoulder as he started striding towards his - illegal - parking spot, pulling his goggles down to his eyes. He paused. “And then you’re going to help me find the Inquisitor.” 

“What in the Void?.. Why?”

“Because I’m going to kill him.”


End file.
